


Lover, where do you live?

by TheBrideOfTheWind



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrideOfTheWind/pseuds/TheBrideOfTheWind
Summary: Murphy returns to his hometown after his sudden and mysterious disappearance five years ago. Reconnecting with his two best friends and his old love doesn’t turn out as easy as he thought it would.Starring a self-destructive Murphy, a supportive Raven, a stoic Mbege, and a heartbroken Bellamy.





	1. In the skies, in the clouds, in the ocean?

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the chapter titles are from the song “Lover, where do you live” by Highasakite.

When he was a child, there had been a time right after his father’s death, when he couldn’t imagine leaving his home, not for college, not for university, never. He wasn’t overly fond of the city itself, or even the people living in it, but it seemed physically painful for him to be anywhere else. He remembered how he wished the world would just freeze in place and never change. How he slept with one of his father's sweaters on his pillow until the last trace of his scent was gone, the garment wetted with his tears. It felt like if he left this place, he would leave the last piece of him behind as well.

His mother had taken the sweater away from him in the end, to put it into the garbage can. “I need you to be strong, John,” she had said. “I need you to be strong, for the both of us.” He had nodded, 9 years old, fingers still clinging to the fabric, tears streaming down his face, as she wrestled it out of his hand, her heels clicking on the floor as she walked to the front yard. He has never cried since.

It’s been five years since he left, five years since his mother’s funeral, five years since the evening he finally decided it would be the best thing to leave and never come back. He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t say goodbye, knowing all too well they wouldn’t have let him go. There wasn’t much time, and he only gathered a few items, the last bit of cash he found – his mother didn’t leave him anything but the house – took his motorcycle and left, without looking back.

It had been harder than he thought. New York was an expensive city, and writing wasn’t exactly the profession to earn much of a living from. After sleeping in the parks for a while, he sold his beloved bike which hadn’t been much of use in the city anyway. He was lucky enough to find a poorly paid job in a Chinese restaurant and a lovely roommate to afford a shabby one-room-apartment over said restaurant kitchen, sharing not only the smell of fried food but also his hopes and dreams to become a successful writer with him.

He didn’t intend to come home. Surprisingly, he didn’t miss Arkadia. New York was big and loud and dirty, filled with enough of exactly that kind of people he couldn’t stand. New York was everything he used to hate. New York was the city to get your dreams shattered. But it was also far away enough for him to be finally able to breathe again, funny enough, considering the usual thick layer of smog that covered it.

It had been more of a spontaneous decision, or a necessary evil, following a letter from his lawyer about a potential buyer for their old house, for his house. He didn’t have to muse on it for too long; there were too many memories tangled in these walls for him to not come himself, if he wanted or not. So he packed a few things, again, put on a new white button-up and left Emori a short note in their – now two-room apartment – and took the 2-day train ride home. Not that it wouldn’t have been much cheaper or faster to book a flight, but he’s always had a soft spot for trains, loves the countryside rolling past him while he sprawls in his seat, flipping through a book lazily.

Arkadia welcomes him with the usual cold wind, dark, heavy clouds hanging in the sky. The roads glitter with old rain, the leaves of the large trees seaming them rustling angrily under the storm. _What a warm welcome_ , he thinks, eyeing the accurately cut hedges in front of the houses warily, sensing – or imagining – curious neighbourly eyes following every step he makes. He didn't miss that, for sure.

The gravel crunches underneath his feet as he walks down the small path to his old home. The narrow house still looks the same, the garden as unkempt as the last time he’s been there, the sweet, heavy scent of wild roses invading his nose. The small garden door still hangs crookedly in its hinges, and it still squeaks so loudly he half-waits for someone to come out and tell him to leave. 

But the house stays as dark and silent as before. He’s not surprised to find the spare key under the doormat, nobody was interested in the house before his departure, and he guesses nobody’s really interested in it now. In his opinion, it would cost a fortune to renovate it, and he can’t say that his family has been wealthy, nothing valuable for thieves in store. It wouldn’t surprise him if the buyer just wanted to tear it down and build a new one. 

The key turns after a few failed attempts when he finds the right balance between pushing and pulling the door, and he stumbles into the hallway, the pile of unread letters and papers crinkling under his careless feet. The room is dim lit from the last gleam of daylight that’s falling through the blinds, and he nearly collides with a cupboard while he gropes for the light switch. It dawns on him that maybe there’s no power when the light bulb in the kitchen flashes with a sad flicker. 

“I’m home,” he whispers into the silence, taking in the dusted furniture, the worn out carpet and the multicoloured pillows that are messily arranged on the brown leather sofa. Everything looks like he left it. 

He searches for the photograph of Bellamy on his graduation day when his gaze falls on the wall with the family photos, plastered with his face in various stages of age. There’s only one photo of his parents, his mother’s head on his father’s shoulder, both smiling blissfully into the camera. Happier times. Nowadays, it’s getting harder and harder for him to remember what they looked like.

He shivers slightly, when the front door flies open all of a sudden, a gust of wind and a dark figure entering the room.

“What the hell –” the stranger swears as he inches closer, a baseball bat placed between his hands. The floor creaks with every step he takes, still wielding the weapon menacingly. He’s never been a fan of horror movies.

“Don’t hit me with that thing, man.”

His plea is met with silence, and he mentally starts to prepare himself for either fight or flight. But it’s still his home, this person is invading, so fight it is.

“Murphy?” The stranger asks, walking out of the shadow with unsure steps just as he readies himself to pounce on him. “John motherfucking Murphy?” he repeats, before two tan arms wrap themselves around him in a crushing hug. The baseball bat falls to the floor with a loud clatter. “I thought you were dead in a ditch,” Mbege says, and he can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying. 

“You look good, though,” his friend chuckles, taking two steps back to have a better look at him. “I mean the beard is questionable, but the hair, yeah, I dig it. Gives you this pretentious writer’s charm.”

“Thanks, man,” Murphy replies with a short brush through his longish hair, catching a better look at the other man himself. He hasn’t changed much, still as lanky and wiry as he remembers him, sporting his usual buzz-cut and wearing the same sombre look on his face. Though he’s smiling at him at the moment, his green eyes sparkling. It’s a rare sight, and for the first time since he came back, he doesn’t regret his decision. 

“I missed you, dickhead,” Mbege mumbles, pulling him into another hug.

“I missed you, too, asshole.”

They easily fall back into their natural comfortableness, his friend sensing that he doesn’t want to talk about what happened or why he left. After smoking some weed Mbege brought with him, they giggle like little school boys before they stumble onto the couch on top of each other, where they fall asleep a few minutes later.

Their sleep is violently interrupted by someone hammering on the front door the next morning. The sunlight peeks through the blinds, but it’s still almost dark outside, no other noise audible than a few birds singing and the relentless hammering. Mbege’s still piled on him, his head lying close to his chest, a small trail of drool trickling down his mouth. He shakes him slightly, with no reaction. He shakes him again, harder this time, and his friend groans in disbelief, opening his eyes reluctantly. Mbege blinks at him, confused, then jumps to his feet, dragging him up with him.

“What’s the matter, man?” He asks, his voice low enough to be not heard outside.

“Shit, shit, I think it’s Raven.” His friend blurts out, pacing around the room nervously. 

“You told Raven? She’s going to –” 

“I’m going to kill you! Open the fucking door, asshole!” Raven yells, not stopping with the hammering. “I know you’re there!” 

“Calm down! It’s 6 am!”

“I don’t fucking care what time it is, open the goddamn door so I can break every single bone in your body!”

“And _why_ would I do that?” He asks in disbelief. That’s not exactly how he pictured his quiet, nonetheless glorious return. 

“Because I won’t leave before you do so!”

“She won’t,” Mbege whispers with a facial expression that’s even more serious than normally.

“Fine,” Murphy huffs, “But I want an imposing tombstone. And you have to bring some flowers to my grave. Peonies if I can choose.”

“I will,” Mbege mouths with an encouraging smile before Murphy opens the door and a small bundle of rage throws herself at him, pounding on his chest in the same way she pounded on the door a minute ago.

“Raven, you’re hurting him,” Mbege remarks, while Murphy keeps a straight face until the girl’s arms fall at her side and she starts sobbing on his shoulder. 

“You – asshole – we – thought – you – were – dead,” she cries, still hitting him in his stomach from time to time weakly. 

“I know, I know. But I think killing me now won’t solve this problem.”

Raven cackles and steps back, not without dealing one last blow to his side, though. “What’s wrong with your hair? And what’s going on with the beard? Are you preparing for an ascent of Mount Everest? Or for some hipster photo series?”

“Oh, how I missed thee,” he sighs, but can’t hide the fondness in his voice.

 

It takes him half a day to escape Mbege’s and Raven’s grip, the latter still wavering between hitting and hugging him every chance she gets. Talk about overcompensating.

When he gets the chance to leave the house in the early evening, he puts on his favourite worn-out sweater, pulling down the hood over his face to avoid any other unexpected encounters. He’s had enough happy reunions for one day. 

It’s as cold as the day before, the wind chasing dark clouds across the grey sky. It’s quiet other than the sound of his footsteps and the roar of an approaching motorcycle. The noise dies away close to him, but he doesn’t lose much thought on it.

“Murphy?” A deep voice asks, and he stops dead in his track. It can’t be.

No, it can’t be him. If everything went right, he’s out of town, living in the suburbs in a nice house with his beautiful blonde wife and his equally beautiful two kids, and not still driving the same ratty old motorcycle – fuck. 

Fuck his freckles. Fuck his golden skin. Fuck his curls that have spilled out from under the helmet he’s holding in his left hand now. Fuck the way he’s looking at him as he’s about to drown. 

“Murphy,” Bellamy says again, incredulous and bewildered, swinging one leg over his bike and kicking down the stand. All of it seems to happen in slow-motion, like in a bad romance movie, but maybe it’s just his brain that has difficulties to process what’s happening.

He’s sure his mouth is agape, and he’s looking like a deer in the headlight, while Bellamy stares at him as if he’s seen a ghost. And maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s a ghost. At least it would explain why he feels so dead and empty, why it sometimes seems as if he’s invisible, a mere stranger in his own body. 

_John Murphy is dead, long live John Murphy_.

He looks back at Bellamy, his Bellamy, who looks the same and sounds the same, who he tried five years to forget, just to realize that he couldn’t.

“I – I –” he stutters. Finding the right words under pressure has always ended in him being too blunt or too harsh, so he most often decides to say nothing to be the better option. Especially, when his gorgeous as ever (ex-)boyfriend is staring at him, waiting for an adequate explanation for his five-year long absence. 

“You must mistake me for someone else,” he mumbles as he hides his face under his hood like a thief, though he can still feel Bellamy’s gaze following him as he walks away. He heaves a sigh of relief when he hears the engine jump to life again, and the sound fades away in the distance. 

When he finally turns around, a myriad of different emotions twisting his stomach, he’s gone.


	2. I learned the lesson about bad ideas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a little longer than I planned, and I realised apparently I can't write pure angst in modern AUs...Hope you like it anyway

It’s eerily quiet in the house the first morning he’s alone, and he wishes Mbege would be there, just the sound of him breathing nearby would be enough. The memories of his parents haunt him wherever he looks, and he flinches at every unexpected noise, waiting for his mother to open the door to the bedroom and pad into the kitchen, barefoot and red-eyed, his father’s dressing gown wrapped loosely around her narrow frame. But the door remains closed, and the only foot steps that resound in the deafening silence are his own.

He’s hungry, but there’s only an old box of cornflakes that he eats with tap water, the dried out flakes crumbling to corn dust in his mouth. He asks himself if it’s possible to be any more pathetic.

Raven finds him sitting cross-legged on the grass in the backyard in the afternoon, staring at the clouds that tower up the sky, ominous and threatening. She sits down next to him without a word, scooting over on the chequered woollen blanket he’s found in one of the cupboards and bumps her shoulder against his before she puts one arm around his shoulder protectively. The air smells like flowers and rain, whirring with that kind of electricity you usually only sense shortly before an approaching storm, the wide branches of the old oak tree above them bending under the strong gusts of wind.

“Raven,” he whispers into the fabric of her shirt.

“Jonathan?” His face wrinkles only the tiniest bit hearing his birth name. She still has some leverage on him. 

“I met Bellamy yesterday.”

“Uh-oh. Better not tell Mbege. He still doesn’t talk to him, because he’s convinced that somehow he’s the reason you left.” She squints at him, apparently searching for an answer he doesn’t want to give. “Is he right?”

“That’s...really sweet of him. But it’s more complicated than that,” he deflects quickly, though he can’t help but smile thinking about Mbege threatening people, before he remembers that he once beat up a guy who insulted him. Bruised and battered Bellamy is not on his wish list, though protective Mbege leaves a sweet taste in his mouth nonetheless.

“So, how did it go? You talked to him, declared your undying love and then hugged it out?” Raven asks with a fake high-pitched voice. 

“I told him it was not me and walked away.”

“You did _what?_ ”

“I told him it was not me and walked away,” he repeats, fainter this time. He scratches his head sheepishly. In hindsight, his behaviour can only be called immature and childish. 

“Well, I’m sensing a pattern there.” 

Murphy gives her a wounded look, and she’s quick to apologise. “Sorry. But you kinda owe him an explanation, or not? As far as I know, he’s been pretty down when you left.” 

That hurts, although it shouldn’t. “I don’t know, I really don’t know. What shall I say? Hey, it’s me, Murphy, your former boyfriend, you remember? I still love you. Let’s just skip the last five years, shall we?”

“You still love him?”

“That was a rhetorical question!” he cries out, angrily fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“Why don’t you just tell him you’re sorry?”

“It sounds so easy when you say that,” he snarls at her. “I’m over him. He’s over me! Why would I waste my time running after him like some lovelorn fool!” The hem of his shirt is actually getting in danger of being torn apart.

“I didn’t say you have to run after him. But come on, you’ve been together for a while, at least talk to him, you owe him that much.”

“I – well fuck this, I don’t owe him anything! I don’t owe anything to anybody!”

“You’re really doing your best to convince people you’re an asshole since you came back,” she spits out, pulling her arm back from his shoulder with an angry huff.

“Well, maybe that’s what I am! A cold-hearted, selfish asshole! Maybe that’s what I’ve been the whole goddamn time! And you all were just too blind to see that!”

“Now you’re insulting my intelligence,” Raven hisses. “Go on, take the easy way out. I mean, if you think you can come home after five years without any explanation why you left and disappear again as if nothing happened, fine! But leave me out of that!”

“I’m just trying to sell that goddamn house! I didn’t come back for anything else! Not for you, not for Mbege, and most certainly not for Bellamy!” 

“You’re sure this is just about the house anymore?” She notes, a lot calmer than before, slightly tired even, and his next sharp reply catches in his throat. He can’t even look her in the eye and deny it, because as usual she’s right, still able to read him like a book, and his face tinges pink with embarrassment.

“At least talk to him. Please.” Her voice is unfamiliarly soft, her eyes pleading, her hand on his back again, warm and encouraging. Soft Raven has always been one of his weaknesses, and this is no exception.

“Fine. I’ll go to “The Dropship” tonight,” he sighs in defeat, and she smirks at him victoriously. “If he’s there, I’ll talk to him. If he’s not there, I’ll just drink. That enough for you?”

“Sounds like a plan. But please, try at least to tune down the asshole a little bit.”

“Yes, ma'am. I’ll do as you please.” 

“I’m awaiting your immediate report,” she commands, squeezing his hip in a way that she has to think of as encouraging before she jumps to her feet, her side of the blanket swirling in the air, blades of grass and clumps of dirt landing on his white t-shirt. 

“Thank you very much,” Murphy calls after her, his words being drowned out by her vicious cackles.

He smiles to himself regardless, because that’s it. That’s the epitome of their relationship. And how could he not love her?

 

“The Dropship” is the only pub in town, a scruffy old thing, dark, dim-lit and dusty, with battered green leather on creaking ebony benches, but possessing a nostalgic charm nevertheless, serving excellent home-cooked food and cheap enough drinks. His old friend Miller is still bartending, giving him a quick nod and a warm handshake before he serves him his first pint of beer. Nate has never been someone to ask many questions, always uncomplicated and easy-going, and he appreciates it. 

He’s always appreciated that he can sit by himself and is left alone by the other guests most of the time, too, until the stool next to him scrapes over the wooden floor noisily, and a pair of black jeans-clad legs comes in sight. The black jeans are matched with a burgundy shirt, the sleeves rolled up, exposing tan, muscular forearms that remind him of something, of someone –

“Hey,” Bellamy says, and his chest tightens at the sound of his voice. “Do you mind?” He has to appreciate that he asks, not that he has any choice to say no. He promised Raven to show a little decency. But only a little.

“It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

“Depends on your definition of freedom,” Bellamy chuckles lightly, still as politically aware as he remembers him. “Raven told me I would find you here.” 

“Hm,” he mumbles, reminding himself not to trust Raven with Bellamy stuff anymore.

“So, you’re not running this time?”

His eyes flicker to Bellamy’s face for the first time, noticing the slight tuck on his lips, and he smiles back at him, an invisible weight falling off his shoulders. Maybe this won’t be as awkward as he dreaded. “The drinks are too cheap, and I’m far too unathletic for that.”

“You are?” Bellamy quips as he lets his eyes wander lazily over his exposed biceps and the tight shirt he’s wearing. For once, Murphy’s glad his hair is long enough to hide the red on the tip of his ears.

“I’m inebriated and therefore even slower than usual, so I’ll just go with sitting this out.”

“Sounds sad.”

“It is.”

“Wanna get some fresh air, then? Maybe there’s a better opportunity for you to run,” Bellamy asks, holding his hand out for him to take it. He doesn't, yet he follows him outside, not without noticing the look Miller gives them. _Nothing to look at_ , Murphy says to himself, as he peers on the small piece of golden skin that peeks out from underneath Bellamy’s shirt whenever he moves and the way his hips swing with every confident stride he takes. _Nothing to look at, at all_. 

The backyard is dark and filled with several garbage cans and empty boxes, a rotten smell laying over everything, but it’s as private and secluded as it gets in this place. Though he’s not sure if privacy and seclusion are what he really wants, he realizes when Bellamy stops only an arm’s reach away from him, smoothing down his wrinkled shirt with both of his hands, the two top buttons coming undone, revealing too much of his chest – at least for the sake of Murphy’s sanity – in the process. 

They are alone out there, and he regrets every choice he made since he talked to Raven in the evening. He’s not superstitious, but he wouldn’t put it past the universe to conspire how to make his stay at home as hard as possible. Karma may be a bitch after all.

Murphy plumps down on the upper step of the stairs, graceful as ever, arms crossed in front of his chest, face nearly hidden behind the veil of his hair that falls forward when he bends his head down to look at a small trail of ants leading from one of the garbage cans to the step he is sitting on. It’s mildly interesting, but it allows him to avoid Bellamy’s gaze and keep his anxiety somewhat in check. Bellamy flops down on the stairs next to him, observing him with furrowed brows, when he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it nervously, and he waits for his usual tirade about healthiness and a slow and painful death of lung cancer.

“You’re smoking again?” He asks while raising his eyebrows. There they go.

“Old habits,” Murphy mumbles, waiting for the inevitable. Bellamy’s always loved his long-winded lectures.

“Can I?” Bellamy asks instead, and he hands the cigarette over to him, unsure, their fingers touching for a small, breathless moment. He watches Bellamy putting it between his lips, taking a deep drag, then exhaling slowly. His cheeks hollow again with another drag, and he can’t pull his gaze away from his hands and his face and his heavy-lidded eyes – this shouldn’t be mesmerising, and he shouldn’t be staring that hard. Bellamy looks at him through dark eyelashes, taking one last drag, then gives him the cigarette back with a soft chuckle.

“Old habits die hard, hm?” he murmurs, voice low and husky, and Murphy hopes he’s referring to the smoking and not the staring.

“Guess so,” he shrugs it off. He only started smoking again after he was in New York, without anyone scolding him for it. And for all of its negative side effects – especially considering his allergies and his asthma – it generally calms him down better than anything. At that moment, though, it makes him even more agitated than before, and he’s glad when he finally finishes his cigarette and can throw it away.

“Raven said you’re selling the house?” Bellamy asks, in a casual tone, though his feet drum against the ground feverishly. 

“Yeah, I’m – just dropping by to get over with it. Meeting the buyer, finishing the papers, then I’m gone.” He expects him to react, but he doesn’t, other than his feet continuing to tap against the stone in a furious rhythm, doing absolutely nothing to calm down his own nervousness. Murphy can feel a pool of sweat forming at the nape of his neck already, dripping down his back in slow motion. This may be how the protagonist of a horror movie might feel right before he walks around the dark corner where the weird noises come from. 

“So you’re still working in that bookshop down the corner?” he asks, trying to make some conversation on his own. Because why not, walk into that trap, you idiot. 

“I’m the owner now, actually,” Bellamy replies but doesn't seem to mind. “And you’re still trying to become a writer?”

“I published a book, actually.” He eyes Bellamy intently, looking for any sign, any flicker of recognition in his eyes. He’s never been a good liar. But maybe Bellamy really doesn’t know. He’s used his mother's maidens name, and maybe he’s gotten too full of himself, maybe he’s showing the same kind of self-absorbed hubris he’s always found and detested in other more well-known authors.

“Congratulations. Big number, isn’t it? Not just the poor small town boy anymore?” Bellamy jibes, his dark eyes fixed on him almost calculating, obviously waiting for his reaction. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear thunder rolling, yet it hasn’t reached them, the air still unnaturally sweet and humid for Arkadia, even during the summer days.

“Can’t complain. Though, as you must know, it’s a shark tank. It’s eating or being eaten.” Murphy decides to ignore his mocking tone, his whole attitude towards his writing which seems to be tinged with – with what exactly? Jealousy? Bitterness? Chagrin? He can't tell, and he bites his tongue so hard he can taste the metal in his mouth.

“Thank God you’ve always been someone that knew how to...get away,” Bellamy scoffs, and Murphy searches for something to get back at him, anger churning wildly in his stomach, his hands balling into fists involuntarily.

“At least, I’ve never been someone who left people hanging the first time they really needed me,” he retorts, dangerously calm, and everything falls silent, the words dangling in the air menacingly. It’s in no way what happened. It’s vicious and unfair, and he knows it, they both know it, and he’s waiting for Bellamy to punch him, to be honest, it would be OK, fair even.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Bellamy states instead, and Murphy blinks at him, utterly perplexed, because that’s definitely not the kind of reaction he would have anticipated. “Though I don’t really know what to do with it. I mean – I – I kind of came to terms with you being gone, and then – you come back out of nowhere and I – and I –“

“I didn’t come back for you,” Murphy interrupts him, and it sounds harsher than he intended to.

Bellamy gulps visibly, a small frown appearing on his forehead before his face falls into a mask of collected politeness again.

“I know,” he says. “I mean, you didn’t even say goodbye, you didn’t write, you didn’t call...I’m not delusional, I’ve not been twiddling my thumbs, waiting for you to come back.” Bellamy takes a deep breath, his eyes dwelling on him for a moment, before he nearly whispers: “And I’ve been seeing someone.”

Of course, he has. Everything else would have been a surprise, yet it hits him like a punch in the gut.

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page then. Haven’t been living like a monk either,” Murphy replies hastily, oblivious to the sudden sharp twitch of Bellamy’s mouth. His blood has turned to ice in his veins. He really must have reached an alarming level of delusion to think he could have waited for him. “And I’m happy for you,” he adds with the fakest smile since that time he ate a spoon full of caviar at one of his book parties. 

“Good,” Bellamy echoes him. “So there’s no need for awkwardness, then?” he asks, his gaze wandering from Murphy’s eyes to his lips mindlessly.

“No need for awkwardness then,” Murphy says as he still tries to shake off the thought of Bellamy with someone else from his mind. “Why would there be any?” he asks, at the same time Bellamy’s hand brushes his bare arm, coincidentally or not, and his heart beat elevates traitorously. 

A single raindrop lands on the same arm, and Murphy looks up at the dark, starless sky. Above the roofs, a lightning illuminates the night. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Bellamy who’s leaning back against the brick wall and studying him with a look on his face, so tender and vulnerable, and so different to the way he looked at him before, that it pains him just to think about it.

He’s never been more relieved to sit in a poorly lit backyard before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? It's lots of fun writing past relationships with the different boundaries and dynamics, hope you enjoy it as much as I do


	3. We’re really out in the middle of it now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and for still keeping up and commenting :-)

It’s nine o’clock on Saturday evening, and he’s already drunk. The dark-haired guy that has been ogling him unashamedly since he set his foot in the bar scoots closer with every beer he drinks, his fingertips creeping up his backrest already. Murphy couldn’t care less, though, being more interested in counting the different beer advertisements on the wall till a mop of dark curls catches his eye.

He ignores the faint flutter of his stomach, and the soft smile that tugs at his lips, treacherously, on the brink of turning into a full-blown grin, the kind of smile that screams “I like you”, but I don’t want you to know. 

Somehow, he’s already half-way down his stool anyway. Thinking before he acts has never been his strongest suit, especially when he’s emotional or Bellamy’s involved, and most of the time these two things are related. It’s only when he turns around that he sees the blonde next to Bellamy, his arm on her lower back, and he clenches his teeth angrily.

Murphy can feel Bellamy’s gaze burning a hole in the back of his head, and with a little satisfaction he perches himself up again and presses a bit closer to the man beside him. For the first time, he looks at him properly, something felt familiar about him the entire time, and as his gaze dwells on his face the penny drops. “Finn? Finn Collins?” he asks, and the guy apparently looks at him for the first time as well, flashing him a toothy smile. 

“Murphy, is that you? I’m sorry, didn’t recognize you with that beard.” He laughs again. “Looks good on you, though.” His long locks have been replaced by a shorter haircut, but he looks at him with the same glint in his eyes. The hand he has withdrawn before is now draped on the back of his chair again.

As far as he remembers, the guy has always had a light crush on him, and that was one, but certainly not the only reason Bellamy has always hated his guts. Now, it’s just the icing on the cake. 

He peeps over his shoulder to catch Bellamy shooting him a deathly glare, his eyes shifting from him to Finn before he gets out of his seat and struts towards them.

Instead of pausing like Murphy expected him to do, Bellamy passes him without any word, ignoring him completely, and wanders over to the abandoned jukebox, his eyes scanning the list, apparently looking for something, brows furrowed in deep concentration. For all he knows about how spiteful Bellamy can get when he’s mad, he’s suspecting the worst.

“Isn’t that Bellamy?” Finn whispers into his ear, loud enough for everyone around the bar to hear, a few heads turning curiously. Miller props both of his elbows on the counter, watching the situation unfold like he’s watching a highly dramatic TV show, while Bellamy’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk.

The rusty old thing starts playing some slow, melancholic song, and Murphy freezes in his place. _This son of a bitch_.

 _“Are you lonesome tonight, do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?”_ Elvis’ voice blares out of the speakers, sad and yearning.

“So I guess, you’re not together anymore?”

“We couldn’t be anymore ‘not together anymore’ if we tried,” Murphy snorts, and Finn nods knowingly as he watches Bellamy brushing a strand of hair out of the girl’s face with gentle fingers.

“Well, two can play at that game,” he says all of sudden and gets to his feet, yanking a stunned Murphy up with him. He looks at him unsure before he realizes what he’s up to, and his dance-partner-to-be puts his hand on his waist and drags him close to his chest. Murphy puts his arms around his neck awkwardly, both of them swaying to the music, neither graceful nor in time, but it serves the purpose. At another time, he might even have enjoyed it.

He spins around once and gets a peek at Bellamy’s furious face, one of his arms having fallen to his side, the other clasping the table tightly as he leans forward. The girl looks more than bored, trying to whisper into his ear, but he doesn’t bestow as much as a glance at her. _Oh, sweet revenge._

Bellamy has never liked to dance, he remembers, only when he was completely wasted he would even place one foot on the dance floor. It’s more likely to find him singing, loudly and out of tune, philosophising on the sideline, or delivering a serious speech about classism than to find him dancing. So it comes as a surprise to see him enter the dance floor, the reluctant girl in tow. Maybe he’s had more beers than he thought.

_“Does your memory stray to a brighter sunny day, when I kissed you and called you sweetheart?”_

His head feels a little dizzy from the spinning and the alcohol, and maybe the closeness to this – he has to admit – handsome guy who’s touching him and breathing down his neck. If he squints his eyes, in the dimness of the room, he could be freckled, and tanned, and raven-eyed, too. _All cats are grey in the dark, aren’t they?_

But he’s not Bellamy, not as caring, not as gentle, not as strong, the real one close enough he could touch him if he reached out his arm, close enough to notice how his jaw tenses and how he holds the girl in his arms with more effort than pleasure. She seems to be more than pleased with the sudden closeness, though, gaping at him as if he just hung the moon.

_“Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare? Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?”_

His eyes find Bellamy’s again, who’s now full on staring at him, the girl in his arms forgotten. Her eyes are closed, her head resting against his chest. He feels a tiny bit bad for her. But it’s not his fault he brought her along, and it’s not his fault – or at least not entirely – that he’s more occupied with gazing at him. 

Finn's hands are warm and steady on his waist and back, and he allows himself fall into the touch, his head lolling on his shoulder, but his eyes never leaving Bellamy’s, as if he’s afraid he might disappear the second he looks away.

And somehow, he gets the feeling that despite everything Bellamy feels the same way, his dark eyes glued to him, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue peeking out from time to time to wet his full lips.

_“Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again? Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?”_

The music ends with one last dramatic note and turns into a more upbeat song. Whatever that moment was they shared earlier; it’s gone. The girl’s fair fingers entwine with Bellamy’s darker ones, her blonde hair shimmering like gold in the amber light. Murphy observes Bellamy bending down to whisper something into her ear before he tears his gaze away from them forcefully and reels to his stool, climbing on it with much more effort than before. The rest of his beer isn't nearly enough to quench his thirst.

“Another beer and a Tequila,” Murphy slurs, smiling sweetly in Bellamy’s general direction. He empties the brimful glass Miller puts in front of him with one gulp, throwing it high arch over his shoulder, and if someone behind him weren’t quick to react, it would have shattered on the floor. 

“He’s had enough,” Bellamy appears beside him, the empty glass in his hands.

“Come on, Nathan, you’ve known me for longer than him, just one more beer, for old times sake,” Murphy purrs, winking at Miller with a charming smile, his hand reaching out to caress his forearm tenderly. 

“Give the man a beer,” Finn chimes in, ignoring Bellamy’s annoyed huff. He retreats in lightning speed when Bellamy takes a step closer, his lips pursed tightly, glowering as if it takes only one more word and he’ll lunge at him.

“It’s none of your business, Collins,” he snarls, still shooting daggers at the other man who seems to get smaller and smaller on his bar stool.

“It’s – none of _your_ business.” Murphy’s outstretched index finger lands on Bellamy’s chest, more forceful than he intended to, and Bellamy’s mouth twitches angrily. He can feel the alcohol finally reaching his head, his cheeks flushing with colour at Bellamy’s erratic – and therefore irritating – behaviour and the emotional roller-coaster he’s experiencing himself.

“It’s enough, John,” Miller confirms, and he can be glad that Murphy’s too drunk to catch him using his first name.

“What’s your problem?” he drawls, walking towards Bellamy like he’s on a rolling boat, his right hand steadying him against the counter. “Were just ‘aving fun...Not that this is something you know about. Or, where’s your little girlfriend?”

“She left,” Bellamy hisses through clenched teeth. “And she’s not my girlfriend.” His breath smells like beer and something sharper, and Murphy’s stupid, intoxicated brain wants to know if he tastes like it, too, and only a small more reasonable part of it is holding him back from giving it a try, right then and there.

“Ohhhh...sorry for ruining this,” Murphy gestures widely – and uncoordinatedly – at the spot where the girl was seconds ago, his arm knocking over Finn’s glass of beer that rolls over the counter, the dark golden liquid splattering over his own shirt and Bellamy’s trousers. Without thinking, he takes the next napkin to at least do some damage control.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bellamy snaps at him as he grabs his napkin-equipped arm mid-air between the counter and his crotch. His besotted brain really has some issues, he realises with embarrassment, feeling even more feverish than before. He’s afraid he must glow like a Christmas tree.

“Ouch,” Murphy yelps feebly because Bellamy’s still holding his arm tightly, his fingers leaving red marks on his ivory skin that will most likely turn purple later. And he’s showing no sign of wanting to let go of him anytime soon. Maybe he’s afraid of his drunken unpredictability that seems to be even worse than his sober unpredictability.

“I’m going to bring him home, Miller,” Bellamy says, finally freeing his arm, their friend nodding at them, while Murphy’s hip collides with the counter, then he falls into Bellamy’s arms like a puppet without strings.

He doesn’t remember how he gets out of the bar, Bellamy merely dragging him, his feet moving slowly and clumsily.

They stop in the parking lot, the long-awaited rain drizzling down his neck and cheeks, Bellamy’s figure reflecting in the puddle in front of their feet. The artificial light of the street lamp casts shadows on his face, his usually golden skin glowing ghastly against the night sky. Murphy looks down to avoid looking at him, his head spinning balefully in response, and when he looks at him again, Bellamy still watches him with the weight of five years apart, with the weight of years of shared history.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to stop Bellamy from looking at him this way, that makes his head throb like he’s standing too close to a booming bass, when he stumbles again, grabbing for something to hold on and crashing into Bellamy’s torso, before warm hands hold him, steady him. Save him.

“You saved me,” he babbles into Bellamy’s shoulder. “You didn’ let me take the fall.” Bellamy doesn’t react other than giving his arm a gentle squeeze before he lets him go, his mouth having left a wet spot on his shirt.

_Like a kiss._

Blame it on the liquor or the fact he can barely stand, or that he’s there, still smelling like the same perfume, still warm and soft, and beautiful as ever.

Blame it on his loneliness, or the fact that there are still so many things unsaid between them, that he couldn’t get him out of his head since he met him again, or that he really is an idiot, a drunk, delusional idiot, but he leans forward and kisses him, desperate, his fingers tangling in his curls like they used to. It’s familiar, the taste of peppermint in his mouth, the shape of his body pressing into his, the beating of his heart against his chest, and for a fleeting moment he’s sure that nothing’s changed, that this is how it should be.

Then Bellamy pushes him away, not even violently but tender, cautious, but it’s too much for him to bear, and he staggers away from him to the nearest bush where he empties his stomach, retching vigorously, the sky twisting and turning in front of his eyes like van Gogh’s starry night. 

A warm hand grazes his back, gentle fingers pushing his hair out of his face. But then Murphy shoves _him_ away, violently, because he doesn't want his empathy, he doesn’t want his pity, he doesn’t want him, he doesn’t need him.

“Fuck you, Bellamy!”

“What did you expect?” he scoffs, and there’s so much bitterness in his voice he has to swallow another rush of bile that’s rising in his throat. “You disappear for five fucking years and come back, kiss me, and everything goes back to normal? Hell, we didn’t even know if you were dead or alive!”

“I’m an asshole, I know. But it was better for all of us. Especially for you.” His mouth is numb and burning with acid, and the words stumble on his tongue, sting in his throat sharp like needles.

“Better for me? Who are you to decide what’s better for me?” Bellamy cries out, nearly laughing, madly, hysterically. “Love conquers all, doesn’t it?” He adds, and by the way his voice shakes he can tell he’s close to his breaking point.

“Maybe I never really loved you then.”

For a second, Bellamy just stares at him disbelievingly. “I know many things about you, but I didn’t know you were that much of a coward.”

The words finally make him break. “Don’t call me a coward!” Murphy yells, and then he’s at his throat, Bellamy’s pulse in a frenzy under his fingers. They jitter against Bellamy’s warm, soft skin, and he’s shocked to discover how close he has necessarily gotten to him again, both panting heavily, Bellamy’s chest heaving in a struggle to breathe.

“Then don’t act like one!” Bellamy frees himself out of his grip with little to no effort, but Murphy stumbles and nearly falls over from the sudden movement.

“Fuck you, Bellamy! Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Well, fuck you, too!” Bellamy shouts back at him, giving him a light shove that sends him to the ground this time, sharp stones piercing into his hands and knees. “And this shouldn’t be too hard, worked fine for the last five years!”

By the time he struggles to his feet again, he’s alone in the parking lot. He doesn’t remember how he gets home, closing the door with trembling fingers, the framed photograph of Bellamy shattering into tiny little pieces that dance on the wooden floor like sparkling diamonds. And it’s only when he falls on his bed, still with his drenched clothes on, hands and knees stinging, that he realizes it’s not just rain streaming down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, what a surprise - it turns out that they are _not_ on the same page. 
> 
> And, that was a wild ride. So, what do you say?


	4. And if I ever see you again my love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After being even slower than usual, I decided to add an unnecessary sixth chapter to make this even longer...Here you go

The following days pass in a haze, and unfortunately, he falls back into old patterns. However, Sunday is and always has been a good day to stay in bed, and that’s what he does, sleeping it off until the light outside changes from golden to silver, and his growling stomach reminds him to eat something. But that’s it.

The next day his head is better, but his heart is another story. In a rush of productivity, he even gets things done. He mows the lawn, cuts back the bushes, tidies up the house, dusts and cleans every room till everything is spick-and-span. But once he’s finished, he gets so tired he barely makes it to his bed. 

Emori calls, probably because he didn’t respond to her messages or because he can’t lie convincingly when he’s on the phone.

“John?” Her voice resounds, tired and a little bit worried. He pictures her, sitting in the old armchair in their living room, her bare feet hanging over the armrest, her caramel eyes exhausted from lack of sleep. He’s afraid she stayed up late the last nights again, a pile of papers in front of her, thinking and writing, like she always does when he’s not there to remind her to go to bed eventually.

“John, are you there?”

“No, I’ve been abducted, and someone else picked up the phone.”

“At least you haven’t lost your humour then. Or your impersonator hasn’t,” she says with a low chuckle. “How is the selling of the house going? Did you meet the buyer?”

“Umm, actually I haven’t...”

“You haven’t? I thought this was the sole purpose of your trip? You’re having second thoughts?”

“It’s – I met Bellamy yesterday. Actually, I met him the second time yesterday,” he admits, already anticipating her reaction.

Other than a soft sigh, Emori’s silent on the other side of the phone.

“I kissed him,” he adds, closing his eyes to get rid of the memory, the look of pity on Bellamy’s face. 

“Oh.”

“He rejected me. We got in a big fight. And I haven’t left the house since. But hey, at least I cleaned,” he laughs it off, although she must hear the bitterness in his voice. “Who would have thought cleaning would be something I’d do voluntarily to get my mind off my ex?”

“John,” she says. And this time it’s definitely concern in her voice. “Shall I come and pick you up? I can borrow my brother’s car and get you if you want.”

“I’ll be OK, I think.”

“You’re sure? I can come over and kick Bellamy’s ass, cute or not, just say the words.”

“Thanks. But I don’t want anybody to get hurt,” he dismisses her, though the idea of a small, angry Emori attacking Bellamy makes him smile at least. “I just didn’t think he would be still here, I didn’t think I’ll meet him. It’s – it’s complicated. But I’ll just get over with the house, and then I’ll be back, in a week maybe. Don’t worry.”

“OK,” Emori sighs again. “But if anything happens, you’ll call me? You still owe me that road trip, you know.”

“I’ll call you.”

It only feels like half a lie, because maybe he would call her if things really went south, though he doesn’t want to bother her with any Bellamy related problems. She has enough on her plate and had her fair share for the last five years. 

As usual, he feels a little calmer after talking to her, although the couch still has a magnetic pull on him.

 

The doorbell rings, once, twice, three times, a shrill, annoying noise disturbing the silence. A minute later it knocks on the back window before the door opens and Raven and Mbege waltz into the room. He knew that his reluctance of locking those doors would come to bite him in the ass sometime.

“What do you want?” Murphy groans, not bothering to stand up from where he lies cocooned under a pile of blankets. It’s warm and cosy, and he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

“We’re taking you out,” Mbege chirps cheerfully, then throws himself on top of him to give him a big hug. He’s not sure if he likes this Mbege version 2.0.

“We’re tired of you moping around. And you didn’t answer any of our calls,” Raven adds as she pulls most of the blankets from his resisting fingers.

“Where do we go? And don’t tell me it’s a surprise. You know how much I hate surprises.”

“Well, it’s a...” Mbege starts, but Murphy cuts him off with an exasperated cry.

“Come on, old man,” Raven moans, while Mbege has already picked him up and thrown him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, carrying him outside of the house.

“This is kidnapping,” he cries out as he notices one of his older neighbours in their front yard. She glances at him quickly, then continues to weed her flower bed as if nothing happened. He really hates this neighbourhood.

Raven steps on the gas as soon as all three of them sit more or less safely inside the car, the motor revving, the tires squealing loud enough to disturb the old lady again, resulting in an icy look and the realisation that he should go on with the sale as soon as possible. They drive far out of town and through the forest, over a dirt road, halting in front of a wooden gate. It’s opened by a tall, muscular man with a grim face, a shaved head and tattoos, and Murphy’s heart nearly misses a beat.

“Is she there, too?” he whispers, and he’s afraid of the answer, but still needs to know to at least prepare himself.

“Who?” Raven asks with a serious voice, and Mbege gives a low chuckle. “Oh, Octavia, you mean? I don’t think so. We’d want to spare you a – maybe not entirely undeserved – beating. That wouldn’t be a nice surprise, would it?”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t deem you capable of surprising me like that,” he scoffs, earning him another chuckle from Mbege and an evil laugh from Raven. “It wouldn’t be the first time...”

They park the car in front of an old shack and get out of it, Lincoln walking towards them with wide strides, his face lighting up when he catches sight of Murphy.

“Good to see you, man,” he rumbles, before he pulls him into a bear hug, and for a tiny second he suspects that Octavia ordered him to crush him with these arms instead of finishing him off herself. Then he reminds himself that she wouldn’t miss out doing it herself, that’s absolutely certain.

“I guess you can tell me now. What the heck are we doing here?” Murphy grumbles, looking at Raven, Mbege, and Lincoln with a scowl on his face. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said that he hated surprises. To make matters worse, all three of them are grinning from ear to ear, and he doesn’t know what to make out of this.

“Do I have to fight you? Hunt our dinner?” None of his friends react, and slowly but surely he’s getting a bit agitated. “No push-up-contest please, and no hair braiding...”

Still no reaction, other than Lincoln walking into the shack and emerging with an old motorcycle, which looks suspiciously similar to the one he once owned.

“Happy belated birthday!” Raven and Mbege scream in unison, and for a second, he has to blink rapidly. It has to be the dust that’s still whirled up from their arrival. 

“We owe you five birthday presents, so we just thought maybe you’d like it?” Mbege asks, looking at him unsure, his fingers clasped over his stomach, moving restlessly.

“It’s –” Murphy babbles. “I – I don’t know what to say.” His eyes fall to the ground before they jump back to the motorcycle. His motorcycle. “I mean, that’s very nice and very generous of you. But I won’t need a bike when I’m back in New York.”

“When you’re back in New York? Or if?” Raven seems dead certain, her brown eyes showing no sign of hesitation. He opens his mouth to contradict her, to tell her that he’s absolutely sure he’s never in a million years going to stay in Arkadia. But the words won’t leave his mouth, not when he has to look her into the eye to say them. 

“OK, enough with the talking.” Lincoln interrupts them, clearly sensing his uneasiness. “How about a test drive? I need Raven’s advice on something else anyway.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Murphy walks towards the bike slowly, his hands roaming over the seat when Lincoln hands him a helmet. “Safety first,” he chuckles, then bends down to him to whisper into his ear conspiratorially. “Just for your information, I didn’t tell Octavia, and I didn’t let her anywhere near the bike. This woman knows how to hold a grudge, ya know?”

“This calms me down immensely,” he sighs, patting Lincoln’s bulging biceps absentmindedly, then puts on the helmet and swings one leg over the motorcycle, more stiffly and clumsily than he used to. Those five years seem to have made an old man out of him. The engine starts at the first attempt with the familiar roar, purring like a kitten when he gives it throttle and takes it out for a spin, careful not to give too much gas and risk to lose control over the bike. 

After a few rounds, he stops, obviously out of practice, but still happy, a small smile playing on his lips. He gives Lincoln another hug and a heartfelt thank you before he climbs on the motorbike again and follows Raven’s car on its way home.

It’s late afternoon, and for once the sun is shining, the yellow light almost giving the small, old houses in his street an air of quaint cosiness. When they arrive at his house, they find another motorcycle parked in front of it, Bellamy sitting on the porch with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and an open book on his knees.

“So much on taking my mind off him.”

“You want us to stay?” Mbege asks him, the familiar scowl reappearing on his face. Raven nods in agreement, giving Bellamy a weak wave nonetheless.

“It’s fine,” he says, as he heads towards the door, putting the key in the lock with trembling fingers.

“Come in,” he nods towards Bellamy, giving his friends who are still standing at the car a last smile before he shuts the door behind them.

He shuffles around the room, clearing away the dirty dishes and his worn clothes, and of course, Bellamy’s gaze falls on the few shards of glass that are still scattered across the floor behind the couch. A small frown appears on his face as he takes in the wall of photographs, the empty spot where one is clearly missing.

If Murphy hadn’t been painfully aware of his presence already, he would be now. The sunlight paints his face with warm colours, and he realises how much he missed him, the words on the tip of his tongue, urging to be said out loud.

But he waits, breathing a sigh of relief when Bellamy speaks up first.

“On Saturday –“

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about – being a little bit harsh. I didn’t mean it. And it was wrong to shove you.”

“If someone has to apologize, it’s me.”

“It’s OK,” Bellamy says, but he cuts him off, not wanting to give him any chance to change his mind.

“ _I’m _sorry, OK? I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for coming back – I’m sorry for kissing you. But don’t bother, I’ll be gone as soon as the house is sold. And you won’t have to see me anymore.”__

____

It’s obviously not what Bellamy wanted to hear, so much he can tell from the deepening frown on his face. “Tell me, why did you leave in the first place?”

____

He knew Bellamy would ask him, sooner or later. But although he had enough time to play the situation in his head over and over again, he’s still afraid to tell him. 

____

“I went back to your house that evening.”

____

“Why didn’t you come in?” Bellamy asks, his brows creasing in confusion. “What happened?”

____

Murphy closes his eyes, thinking back to that day, the day that changed everything.

____

After all this time, he still remembers it vividly. _Bustling birds chirping in the bushes behind the house, his neighbours chitchatting on the street. The bright sunlight breaking through the canopy of leaves in front of the morgue under a cloudless azure sky._

____

_A beautiful day as if to mock him, a day so ironically full of happiness, and for everything his mother has been, happiness wasn’t a part of it._

____

_The summer heat pressed mercilessly on the funeral party, droplets of sweat lustering on their faces like shiny pearls. His shirt was soaking wet under his suit jacket, and nonetheless, he had been shivering, as if all the heat in the world couldn’t keep him warm._

____

_Raven was silent beside him, Mbege even more gloomy than usual, Clarke’s eyes shimmering with tears. And Bellamy, everywhere with him, always, his hand grazing his back, his fingers entwining with his, his arm around his shoulders._

____

_He still remembers the funeral, the coffin covered with dirt, the sickening, sweet scent of the white lilies, the sobbing of her sister, and him standing at her grave stone-faced, not a single tear leaving his eyes. His emotions had been running high behind his cool exterior, and afterwards, he felt sorry for shoving away the comforting hand Bellamy had offered him. They had gotten into some stupid, irrational fight over nothing and he had left Bellamy behind after the funeral feast, running back to the empty house, the dead silence and solitude hitting him like a wave. It was as silent as a grave, and in his mind, that’s what it still is._

____

_He still remembers how he walked over to Bellamy’s house, looking through the back window to see him and Clarke on the sofa. They hadn’t been doing anything else than sitting next to each other, but they were laughing at something on TV, Bellamy looking carefree and at ease for once, and he didn’t have the heart to break the spell._

____

_His own heart was a strange and dead thing, and love felt more and more like an illusion, like a hollow promise. If his mother had loved him enough, she wouldn’t have left him alone. He would never let this happen to him again._

____

Murphy opens his eyes to find Bellamy staring at him with a concerned look on his face.

____

“Murphy?” he asks, his voice so incredibly soft it nearly breaks him.

____

“I – I saw you and Clarke,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. His tongue lies heavy in his mouth, the words clinging to his throat, sticky as honey.

____

“I don’t understand.”

____

“You were laughing. You seemed so relaxed. And happy. And I thought that’s what you deserve. Happiness.”

____

Bellamy moves towards him, his face only an inch away, and he’s afraid he might kiss him this time, afraid that he couldn’t say no, that he wouldn’t be able to leave again. “You really are a fool, Jonathan Murphy,” Bellamy whispers. He cups his face with his hand, his fingers cold on his skin, his thumb stroking his cheek softly. And he’s so close he can feel his breath on his face, can see the fluttering of his eyelashes, the slight quiver of his lips. “How could I be happy without you.” 

____

Murphy pulls his gaze away forcefully and exhales slowly, steeling himself to do what he has to do, to say what he has to say. 

____

“I’m just here to sell the house. Nothing holding me here now. Nothing holding me here back then.”

____

“Then why are you still here?” Bellamy wants to know, and he can’t hide the sadness in his eyes, yet he sounds almost defiant.

____

He doesn’t answer him, and Bellamy leaves the room without another word, the door shutting quietly behind him. The garden gate creaks in its hinges, his motorcycle roaring wildly as the engine starts with a loud growl; then it’s silent again.

____

He waits another minute to be completely sure that he’s gone before he pulls a dog-eared business card from his wallet and takes his phone to key in the number. Still unsure, he stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the dial button hesitantly. When he finally presses the button, it rings several times, then a dark male voice answers.

____

Murphy gathers himself for a moment, taking a deep breath before he finally speaks. “Thelonious Jaha? This is John Murphy. Yeah, exactly.” He takes another deep breath. “I’ve heard you’re interested in buying my house.”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, there's Emori! And Lincoln! And Jaha...but that never bodes well, does it?
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	5. All I'm ever gonna do is send shivers down that spine of yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, long time no say. But here I finally present the next chapter! Sorry for taking so long...

Thelonious Jaha in person isn’t much different than he expected him to be judging from the one time they talked to each other on the phone. He’s a tall, dark-skinned, middle-aged man with greying hair, kind, brown eyes and an accurate chin beard who carries himself with the over-confidence of someone that believes he’s destined for greater things. He even talks like a preacher, sermonizing about his vision of a “City of Light”, about engineering a future for their children. 

Murphy has to bite his tongue to keep himself from telling him the truth, that his neighbours will never sell their houses to him, and that Arkadia is a glum, rainswept hellhole of a city, and the only light in town is either the pale glow of the street lights or the rear lights of the cars that have to cross it on their way elsewhere.

Nevertheless, Jaha makes him a good offer, no, he makes him an excellent offer. He even agrees to take the house with all of the furniture in it and to organize a company to clear it out and knock the building down. He seems a little taken aback by Murphy’s indifference concerning his old home, though.

“You’re sure about that, son?” he asks him, disbelief swinging in his voice. “There are many memories buried inside of the house you grew up in.”

“I’m nobody’s son anymore,” Murphy hisses. “And I’d rather let those memories be buried there forever.”

Jaha puts a hand on his shoulder, most likely to placate him, but entirely oblivious to the fact that the well-meant gesture only helps to enrage Murphy even further. “It’s your choice. But you don’t have to rush this. Take all the time you need.” 

The older man gives him a smile, but despite all of his ostensible kindness, Murphy doesn’t trust him. There’s something unsettling and unpleasant about his whole demeanour, and the more time he has to spend with him, the more it’s truly starting to creep him out.

“If I wanted to hear a sermon, I would have gone to church,” he murmurs, more to himself, but loud enough for Jaha to hear it. A frown flashes over the man’s solemn face, but he doesn’t call him out or react to his affront in any other way. The guy seems to have the patience of a saint. Maybe he really is some kind of cleric after all.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Murphy. My lawyer will make the papers ready and send them to you.” Murphy nods and shakes Jaha’s outstretched hand reluctantly. “And I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours.” 

“Thank you.” Jaha gives him another warm smile, walking down the path to the street without hurry, Murphy letting out a sigh of relief when his grey head finally disappears around the next corner. He hopes this was the last time he had to talk to the guy.

 

“So you’re really selling the house now?” Mbege asks as he takes another gulp from the bottle of whisky in his hands then passes it over to Murphy. They lounge on the sofa in the living room, Raven sitting cross-legged in the armchair next to them. On TV “Sharknado 3” is flickering which could explain the indulge in alcohol and Raven’s permanent eye-rolling.

“I think so. I mean, that Jaha guy is totally giving me the creeps, but never look a gift horse in the mouth? I would be dumb to reject his offer. In the end, I’m glad that I even found a buyer,” he says, munching on a hand full of chips, careful not to let any crumbs fall onto the couch, his mother always had him clean them away if he did so. 

“You know that guy, Raven? It’s more your business than ours,” Mbege asks, leaning forward on the couch – or more nearly falling off it – to get a better look at her.

“It’s carrying things too far. I heard some stories about him, though. Monty once did an internship at his engineering company.”

“And?” Both Murphy and Mbege look at her with wide eyes. “What did he say?” Of course, she savours the moment before she answers them. 

“Apparently, his employees love him. They nearly follow him like some kind of religious leader. Monty says it seemed more like a cult than a firm.”

“Sounds true,” Murphy whispers, casting his mind back to the morning. “He’s got some magnetic leadership quality, I’ve got to admit that.”

“He’s got big plans for Arkadia, has had them for a while now. From time to time, there’s a huge event where every important citizen is invited, and Jaha presents his idea of a “City of Light”. Turns out he’s neither found enough supporters nor enough land to realise his dream so far.”

“Well, even if he gets your house, my parents and their neighbours will never sell theirs,” Mbege harrumphs, looking out of the window to the small blue wooden house next door, the house he grew up in.

“I know,” Murphy agrees. “But I just want to get rid of mine. I don’t care if he gets what he wants as long as I get what I want.”

“You know if this is the only reason for you to leave you could stay with Raven or me. I think even my Mom would let you sleep in my old room, yeah I definitely think she would like that.”

Murphy sighs, scratching his nose absentmindedly. “It’s not the only reason.”

Mbege clenches his fists, opening and closing them several times, a common habit whenever he’s ready to jump to his defence at any moment. “For crying out loud! Don’t tell me you’re leaving because of Bellamy again?”

“It’s more complicated than just that.”

“So he isn’t the reason you left the last time?”

“He isn’t. At least not solely.”

“What he wants to say is: You can stop the death threats and late-night shifts sneaking around his house,” Raven barges in, glowering at Mbege as she looks up from the TV where the two main character just get eaten by sharks – in space.

“She’s exaggerating,” Mbege is quick to reply – with a suspiciously guilty face – but he’s experienced more times than he can count how protective Mbege can be towards him, and wouldn’t put it past him to make Bellamy's life a living hell.

While Mbege is sulking silently and Raven’s still glaring at him, Murphy uses the moment of uncomfortable silence to finally come clean and hand each of them a copy of his book.

“Woah, I know you would make it one day!” Mbege exclaims, bouncing up and down on the couch like an excited puppy. “So, are you famous now?”

He shakes his head dismissively.

“Are you at least filthy rich?” The question only raises a tired yawn, and Mbege’s smile drops. “Groupies? Parties? Fan mail?”

Mbege stops pestering him about his life as a published writer as he shakes his head again, looking like he just got his dreams shattered. But at least Raven’s having the time of her life flipping through his book and especially reading the reviews.

“ _Raw, intense and real, prepare for an emotional roller coaster._ Sounds like you,” she chuckles, reading out the first one.

“ _The critically acclaimed semi-autobiographical debut of newcomer Dawes provides a thrilling coming-of-age story, following the protagonist returning to his roots, finding his place in life and society and reuniting with his old love._ ”

She looks up from the book, her eyes sparkling dangerously, and he already knows what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth. “I’ve to say, I’m impressed, Jonathan. But I’m just wondering, who’s the old love they’re talking about?”

A shocked gasp leaves Mbege’s mouth, and Murphy’s face turns from pale, to deathly pale, to scarlet red.

“So they live happily ever after?” Raven carries on, a smug grin on her lips. “Never took you for such a romantic, but I’ve been wrong before. Not often though.”

“You still love him,” Mbege states, blunt as ever and if it’s the most obvious thing ever. 

Murphy hunches his shoulders defensively. “I don’t –”

But his best friend has never been someone to let things go so easily. “I’m not blind. I saw you two together yesterday.”

“Now you're imagining things.”

“You know me long enough to be certain that I’m the person with the least imagination in this room.”

“What is holding you back?” Raven chimes in again to double his misery.

“What’s holding me back? You really want to know what’s holding me back?” he exclaims, and his friends both wince at the sudden change in his voice. “This may sound strange, but with Bellamy and me, it’s like gravity. We’re drawn to each other, but in the end, it's not enough. It's never enough.”

“What about what you want? You wrote another ending in your book, after all?” Raven has the courage to ask.

“This is not a fucking story! It’s my fucking life! You can’t always get what you want. I learnt that the hard way.” He jumps to his feet to pace around the room, running his fingers through his hair agitatedly. “I built myself something there, why would I throw everything away for – for love?”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Mbege mumbles, pressing the whisky bottle to his chest with starry eyes, the golden liquid swaying to and fro gently.

“You too? What happened to you while I was gone? And what do you expect me to do? Run over to his house and confess my undying love with a great romantic gesture?”

Both of his friends look at him expectantly, Mbege still embracing the bottle tightly and Raven raising one eyebrow at him, her mouth twitching suspiciously.

He heaves a sigh. “That’s what you want me to do?”

They nod in unison. He must have missed the point where his life has turned into a romance novel. He also must have missed the point where he agreed to go to Bellamy's to tell him how he feels.

“You think I can still drive? Just had one drink.” 

Raven gives him a serious look. “You and your funny friend over there drank half the bottle.”

“It was just one small gulp, wasn’t it, Mbege? Only a tiny sip? A teeny-tiny one?”

“For God’s sake, it’s for love!” his best friend exclaims with as much pathos as he can probably muster. It’s surprising and – if he’s honest – a little disturbing. These five years have really changed him.

“Fine, as usual, you’re right, Raven, and you can drive me. Don’t stay up and wait for me kids, I may come home late this night.” 

“Good luck, John-Boy,” Mbege says, giving him a fist bump and an encouraging pat on his back before they leave. 

 

The way from his house to Bellamy’s isn’t far if you go by car, but this night, it feels like a lifetime. He feels strangely euphoric as they drive through the empty streets, Raven silent on the driver seat beside him, and by the time they arrive, his head is almost spinning with deliriousness.

“Just be yourself, Jonathan,” Raven calls after him through the open window as she slowly moves her car out of the driveway, flashing her headlights once before she leaves him. 

He wants to chuckle at her advice, but the laughter sticks in his throat. That’s what he’s afraid of. That’s what he’s been afraid of the whole time.

There’s little light falling through the closed blinds, painting yellow stripes on the accurately trimmed lawn beside the house. He waits in front of the doorstep for several minutes, counting the seconds before he finally rings with trembling fingers, already regretting that once again he listened to his friends. 

It takes a few seconds before it’s answered and Bellamy opens the door in sweatpants and a loose shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. He looks relaxed. And young. He looks like he did five years ago, like nothing changed at all.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, his eyebrows quirking up as he takes him in, and he hopes he doesn’t look as drunk as he feels. “I thought you were having your farewell party with Raven and Mbege.” 

“I – I got something for you.” Murphy reaches into his backpack to pull out another copy of his book, their thumbs brushing swiftly as he hands it over to him with an unsure smile.

“A dark heart by Jonathan Dawes,” Bellamy reads out, a sign of recognition flashing over his otherwise unmoving face. “I thought this sounded like you.” 

“I even signed it,” Murphy babbles, chafing his hands together to keep them warm. “If I ever get really famous or die soon, you’ll be able to make some money of it at least.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Bellamy chuckles, his breath forming tiny white clouds in front of him as he speaks. “But I hope you don’t die.”

“Only the good die young, remember,” Murphy jokes, but falls silent when he sees Bellamy’s face darkening. 

“Sorry, I didn’t want to… Bellamy, I wanted to tell you something –”

“Who is it, Bell?” A distinctively female voice calls from inside the moment he is about to say the words, and a deathly cold hand takes hold of his stomach. 

“I’ll be back in a minute!” Bellamy yells back into the warm cosiness of the house. He turns back towards him with an apologetic smile, brushing a rebellious curl from his eye. “Sorry, you wanted to say something?”

“Um, never mind. I just wanted to drop this off. And tell you that I’m leaving tomorrow. Take care.”

He’s already half-way down the stairs when Bellamy calls after him. But he doesn’t look back. If he looks back, he’s lost, he knows it, and he doesn’t have the strength to look away if he looks at him again.

The night is dark and chilly, a starry sky spanning over the sleeping town. The crescent moon casts a silver glow on the front gardens, the grass sparkling with fresh dew. 

He’s always liked the nights in Arkadia, the deserted roads, the soothing sound of the crickets chirping, only every now and then the noise of a passing car, its rear light paling into the distance. It’s a nice contrast to New York’s bustle, to the glaring neon lights and the clamour of the big city, and in this rare moments, the city almost looks beautiful. 

He walks down the streets with no hurry, too ashamed and upset to call Raven to pick him up. Everything has its time, and he’s going to write her and Mbege to drive him to the station in the afternoon once he gets home.

 

He sleeps little this night, rolling around in his bed restlessly, a horrible nightmare plaguing him.

_It’s night again in Arkadia, a night so dark he almost can’t see his hand in front of his eyes. The doorbell rings, and he opens the door to find Jaha standing on the doorstep as he did in the morning. When he walks out on the pitch-black porch to meet him, Jaha starts to tear down the walls of the house with his bare hands, snakes winding up his arms and his body, his eyes glowing demonically as he stares at him._

_“Do you believe, John? Take this leap of faith with me,” he exclaims, holding out his hand to him expectantly._

_The snakes hiss at him as he reluctantly takes Jaha’s hand, and as he holds onto it, the other houses in the street start to collapse as well, Jaha yelling at him: “You need to have faith, John!”_

_But his fingers slip away, and he’s getting yanked down, only clinging to the edge of the crater in the last second. His feet dangle in the air, gravity pulling on him till he loses his grip on the crumbling surface, and he closes his eyes shut as he cries out and falls into the abyss._

_When he opens his eyes again, the crater is gone, and he isn’t dead, but standing in the graveyard, a freshly dug grave only a few metres away, a dark-haired man in front of it with his head down._

_He walks towards him, slowly, cautiously, but the gravel crunches under his feet, and the man turns his head to look at him. He's got Bellamy’s dark curls, his freckles and his mouth that curves into a happy smile as he catches sight of him, but there’s a hole gaping in his face where his right eye should be. As he looks closer he notices it’s not just the right eye, but the whole man is more of a rotting corpse than a living human being, his skin pallid and sallow, flaking off like old paint from his face. He lets out a shocked gasp, taking a step back but Bellamy follows, his one eye staring at him pleadingly._

_“Murphy,” he cries softly, though his lips don’t move. “Please. Don’t leave me.” He takes another step back in horror, but Bellamy reaches out his arm, his bony fingers grabbing his wrist tightly._

_“How could I be happy without you,” he howls, his mouth only a dark hole, his face no more than a skull, his body deteriorating right in front of his eyes. The skeleton winces when he breaks away from him, its bones rattling desperately in response. The rattling swells to a crescendo of bones against bones as Murphy stumbles away, falling over his own feet several times, and when he looks back he’s gone, only a pile of bones remaining._

_His face feels wet, and when he touches it, he notices that he’s crying, blood-red tears, the crimson trailing down his neck, staining his white shirt. He scrambles up the hill beside the graveyard towards a man and a woman he makes out on top of it, the lush green grass brushing against his bare feet and his hands as he runs towards them._

_Once he’s at the top of the hill he sees them clear enough, the woman in a flowing white dress, her long hair blowing in the wind, the man wearing a white suit and a smile on his face. “Come with us,” his parents whisper, their voices soft as a summer breeze._

_And for a moment, he considers to go with them, his face lighting up, a blissful expression appearing on it._

_“I can’t,” he whispers, and the second the words are spoken, their bodies start to fade till he’s alone again on the hill, only the wind murmuring and sighing against his skin._

He wakes up on the cusp of dawn, bathed in sweat, the blanket clinging to his body, his hair sticking to his head like a dark crown.

But he doesn’t feel kingly at all. And what's a king without a kingdom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't too unnecessary and the dream sequence wasn't too much, maybe my love for dark, gritty, disturbing stories about (un)dead people went a little bit overboard...So bear with me!
> 
> Thank you for all your sweet comments, they keep me going!


	6. It would be nice to come home, I guess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long, I've kinda been writing too many things at once without finishing one of them and had a lot of other stuff going on. 
> 
> But here it comes: the end!

It’s still early in the morning, the moment his photographer friends would call the golden hour. Wafts of mist hang over the fields and meadows, a first harbinger of the oncoming autumn, some of the leaves already changing their colours. The soft first light of day paints the surroundings in pastel, orange and red, and gold, always gold. 

The air is fresh and clear, and so cold he has to turn up the collar of his woollen coat to stop his lips from shaking and his teeth from chattering. If he were in the mood, he would take a picture to capture the moment. It’s rare enough for him to be up at the right time to witness the sun rising, but right now he’s really not in the mood to acknowledge beauty, in any shape or form.

The cemetery is only two miles away from his house, but he’s never been a fast walker, and his backpack with the roses he cut of from the front yard seems to pull him down with the baggage of five years of disregard. The place is deserted and quiet, and with a sigh of relief, he realises there’s no sign of a freshly dug grave, of a head with dark curls, or a man and a woman in white on top of the hill towering behind it.

It takes him some time to find the grave of his parents, wandering aimlessly through lines of gravestones whose only difference is their colour and the engraving on them.

The tombstone looks a bit weathered, but there are blooming flowers planted in the wet ground, and he spots a fresh bouquet of roses, wondering who is caring for the grave with him gone for years like he wondered why the electricity and the water were still working in the house.

He’s not religious anymore, never really was, so he doesn’t pray, just puts the roses to the ones that are already there, and stares at their names and date of death carved into the rough surface of the stone, trying to remember the last time he has seen both of them. Trying to remember his father’s breathy laugh, the soft touch of his mother's hand on his back. 

But memories are smoke and mirrors, and so are dreams, he should know it by now. And with one last glance, he leaves his past behind and makes his way back to spend the remaining time in the house.

 

The way back seems even longer than the way there, and he spends plenty of time maundering the hills and enjoying the quietness and solitude. The town is just awakening as he returns, some of his neighbours already pottering around their gardens, eyeing him suspiciously as he gives them a short nod. Some things never change.

When he walks past the garage, his gaze falls on the motorbike standing beside it. Many years earlier it had been a small yellow bike leaning there, day over day, before he knew how to ride it.

_A smile breaks his face as he remembers how clumsy he was, a lot of tears, open knees and dirty hands, falling on his backside more times than staying on. As usual, his dad was patient as a saint with him, picking him up every time he fell, holding his bike when he climbed on it again and telling him time after time that he’ll learn it if he only tries long enough. He wished it would have been the same with the motorcycle, but his father always told him he was too young to come with him, and he would show him once he was older. But the day never came._

Inside the house he lets his hands wander over the various scratches on the countertop, the edge of the kitchen cabinet he used to bump his head against regularly when he was younger. Over the spines of the books in the bookshelves, the smooth, scuffed leather on the couch, the soft fabric of the armchair.

In a rush of courage and self-torment, he even dares to open the door to his mother’s bedroom, the sweet, herbal scent of lavender hitting his nose with wistfulness and nostalgia. He used to hate the sickly floral odour, but his mother loved it nonetheless, said it helped her sleep and calm down. 

The room still looks like she never left, the blanket crumpled, the nightgown draped over the chair next to the wardrobe, the photograph of his father on the bedside table. He opens the closet to hang the gown inside, shakes up the blanket and smooths it down on the bed neatly before he takes the photo and shuts the door behind himself carefully as if he’s afraid to break something. 

He puts it to the other framed photographs that are scattered on the table, ready to be packed. There’s not much more he wants to keep other than a few of his old clothes and some books he selected from the shelf earlier. 

As he looks out of the window at the still blooming rose bushes, another memory jumps to his mind.

_A warm summer night. The whiff of roses in the air. Bellamy’s hand on his, like it belonged there._

_They had spent the evening together at “The Dropship”, and he was a little tipsy from the beer and maybe Bellamy’s presence. It wasn’t the first time they were out alone, but it was the first time the electric energy between them was nearly palpable, their feet touching under the table in a way their hands couldn’t. Bellamy walked him home, and they were sitting on the porch in front of the house, talking and laughing, till the time came to say goodbye._

_“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said, the nonchalant tone of his voice contradicting the words, and instead of hugging him like usually Bellamy had cupped his face and kissed him, the light of the moon draping them in silver and blue._

_Although it wasn’t his first kiss, his heart had been fluttering like a baby bird. He was afraid to wake up his Mom in his rapture, cautious not to make any noise as he sneaked into his room, his heart still beating fast and heavy against his ribs. And he lay awake in the darkness for long, his belly tingling with real happiness for the first time that he could remember, until he finally fell asleep, the memory of Bellamy’s lips on his mind._

A knock on the door tears him out of his reverie; then the doorbell rings once. He opens it to let in Mbege and Raven, as usual, they’re too early, ready to nag him about the night before. But at least it’s not Jaha again.

“Isn’t Bellamy here?” Raven asks, irritation shining through her voice. “I told him to stop by at eleven.”

“You did what?” Murphy cries out. “But hey! It doesn’t matter. He won’t come,” he murmurs, looking at the empty spot behind Raven and Mbege.

“He will. I’m gonna call him right now,” Raven exclaims as she pulls her cell phone out of her handbag and walks a few metres away from them to make the call.

“So you’re really leaving again, hm?” Mbege mutters, curling and uncurling his fingers around the hem of his t-shirt as he stares out of the window at his parents’ house, in a transparent attempt not to look at him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. It’s really strange. I've always thought a house is just a pile of bricks, you know? Walls, and doors, and windows. But now that I'm back, as much as I want it, I can't do it. Every stone, every grass blade, every single detail reminds me of them. And I don't want to lose it. And I don’t want to lose him.”

“I know. But you don’t have to?”

It sounds easy when he says it. Astoundingly easy. And maybe he’s right. Maybe it really would be for the best. Maybe he had spent too much time trying to tell himself that all of this meant nothing to him. 

“It’s just – I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what’s the right thing to do anymore.”

“Maybe there is no right thing?” Mbege says, patting his shoulder lightly as he watches him shuffling the spread out items on the table with restless fingers.

Raven spares him further musing when she joins them again, throwing back her phone into the bag with an exasperated huff. “He doesn’t answer, but maybe he’s just running late –”

The doorbell rings again, long and shrill, and Murphy’s eyes dance from Raven’s satisfied smirk to the annoyed expression playing on Mbege’s face.

“What is it with you people,” he mumbles as he opens the door, just to shut it again quickly. He should have known that this would happen. He really should have anticipated that this would happen.

“Hey!” Raven crows somewhere from behind him. “What are you doing?” Her voice changes from bewilderment to concern in an instant as she comes close enough to get a proper look at him. “What’s going on? Why are you hiding in the bathroom?”

“It’s not Bellamy,” Murphy whispers, his head peeking out from behind the door frame. “It’s her.”

“Her?” Both of his friends ask as he takes a seat on the cold bathroom floor, his fingers running over the brittle joints between the green tiles absentmindedly.

“I can hear everything you say,” a female voice resounds from outside, muffled by the wooden door and mildly annoyed. It’s followed by the noise of heavy boots thudding against the wooden porch.

As always, Mbege doesn't think twice, opening the door again to reveal no one else but Octavia Blake herself.

“Mbege,” Murphy groans as she walks inside with an offended grunt, all clad in black leather and with a matching look of dark determination on her face. He’s always suspected his best friend harboured a secret crush on her, and the tight hug combined with the sudden smirk on his face doesn’t do anything to discard his suspicions.

“I come in peace,” Octavia growls at him, though that doesn’t make her look any less intimidating, and her tense jaw and the tight line of her mouth seem to scream “for now”. 

“I heard you were in town and wanted to check on you.”

He scrambles to his feet to face her, still cautious and unsure about her agenda. And this doesn’t sound like the Octavia he knows at all. “Not to sound rude, but I’m really in the middle of packing and –”

“I wanted to talk about Bellamy,” she cuts him off bluntly. Of course. 

“Well, I don’t want to talk about him. And I really need to –”

Octavia shakes her head impatiently. “Listen, Murphy, I don’t know what’s going on between you two. But Bellamy is my brother, and I owe him that much. And believe me, I really don’t know if I’ll survive another aftermath of you leaving.”

The way her green eyes bore into his, makes him fear for his safety, and with a heavy sigh, he nods his approval. “Go on.”

“When you disappeared five years ago, he was devastated. He didn’t know what happened, he asked himself if he did something wrong. He was afraid you...would do something stupid. He searched everywhere, called the hospitals, checked the newspapers, but nothing. Not a single sign of you.”

She’s still eyeing him, scrutinizing his face and every reaction, and he closes his eyes to avoid her piercing gaze, rubbing his nose nervously.

“In the end, one of your neighbours told us she’d seen you in the morning, driving away on your motorcycle. However, my brother thought you just needed time to be alone for a while, would come back soon. He’s been waiting for you ever since.”

It’s something. But it’s not enough. Not enough for him. “You know what, I’m sorry. I already told him. But I think you’re wrong there. He has moved on.”

Octavia stares at him indignantly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He was on a date when I met him the last time at “The Dropship”. And yesterday a girl was over at his house.”

“He hasn’t been– he hasn’t had–“, her voice falters, then her face hardens again, and she looks him straight in the eye. “He was only talking about you being back. And I’m really tired of hearing him gush about you all the time, believe me.” 

“What?” 

“My brother’s at the bookshop right now, most definitely crying his eyes out as he traces the corners of your book with his fingers longingly.” 

“You’re sure about that?”

“You and I haven’t been on the best terms lately,” she coughs. “So do you really think I would come to your house on the day you’re leaving for good, if I wasn’t sure?”

“You got a point there. But what’s up with the girl yesterday?”

“The girl was me, you dimwit?” Octavia sighs. “So will you get your ass over to the shop then or do I have to drag you there myself?” She takes a step towards him, and he has to bring up all of his willpower not to run and hide in the bathroom again.

“I’ll go voluntarily. No force will be needed. Help yourself something to drink till I’m back,” he gestures at the empty countertop and the most likely also empty fridge behind it.

“Don’t run away this time!” Mbege shouts, Raven and Octavia bursting into a laugh they muffle with their hands when he shoots them a deathly glare. “Go, find your place in life and society and reunite with your old love!” Raven ups the ante and he slams the door into her smug face, muttering “you’re an awful friend” on his way out.

As if on command, it starts to rain as he steps outside, grey clouds chasing around a gloomy sky. Heavy raindrops patter mercilessly against his helmet, and he can barely see anything through his steamed up visor. His palms feel sweaty, and he has to fight the urge to rip off his gloves and wipe them on his jeans, like he has to fight the urge to belt down the rain-drenched roads, spraying water already soaking his boots and the legs of his trousers. 

He parks his bike on the sidewalk, not bothering if he’s allowed to or not, this is a once-in-a-lifetime situation, or at least that’s what he hopes for. Freeing his head from the helmet quickly, he smooths his hair down as neatly as he can, in the hope it doesn’t look too flat and sweaty. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime situation after all.

The shop hasn’t changed, crammed into two rooms of an old building, packed with antiques, old classics and a few selected newer books. It has always looked more like an antiquarian bookshop as a regular one, and Murphy always loved it, the atmosphere, the shelves packed with all kinds of books and the lazily piled up books beside them, the smell of dust and old paper. He and Bellamy used to spent a lot of time there, sitting silently over old dog-eared books, the only noise filling the room the rustling of the turning pages. He used to laugh about Bellamy’s obsession with ancient authors and ancient times in general, call him a history nerd with a twinkle in his eye. Bellamy used to tease him back about his need to quote Shakespeare and his love for dystopian novels. Raven would roll their eyes, telling them they sounded like an old married couple.

The bell over the door tinkles softly as he enters, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the wooden floor. As usual, he doesn’t find Bellamy at the counter or in the storage room, but sitting in the old red velvet wing chair – an heirloom of his grandmother – a book in his hand.

He takes a few steps towards him before he finally speaks up: “Excuse me, sir, you wouldn’t happen to have a copy of “A dark heart” by Jonathan Dawes?”

Bellamy’s eyes flicker at him from another reread of the Odyssey as he hears his voice, a mix of surprise and barely contained relief on his face. He clears his throat noisily before he starts talking. “Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s only one copy in possession of myself; unfortunately, it’s at my home right now, but I could borrow it to you if you like. The customer is king, isn’t he?”

“I’m always late. Or too early. Impeccable bad timing, isn’t it?” Murphy sighs, eyes sparkling with mischief, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Speaking of bad timing, shouldn’t you be at the station by now,” Bellamy says, throwing a quick glance on his watch before his gaze falls on him again.

“As you should know, I’m full of surprises.” This time he can’t help the smile breaking across his face.

“Yeah, I really should know that by now,” Bellamy chuckles softly as he shifts a little on the chair to get a better look at him. Leaning against the red velvet, with the horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and his wild locks sticking in every possible direction, he looks like an antique himself, a truly rare and special antique, though. 

“Still waiting for Odysseys to come home?” Murphy asks, nodding at the open book in Bellamy’s lap as he leans back at the next bookshelf, ironically the one with the ancient classics in it.

“Still weaving and unweaving every day.” 

“What do you think is taking him so long?” Murphy asks it casually, his body pressing against the books behind him as if he’s looking for comfort, the wisdom of centuries in his back. 

Bellamy gazes up at him, dark lashes flittering against sharp cheekbones. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.”

“Maybe he got lost on the way. Maybe he didn’t know there’s still someone waiting for him to come back.”

“Then maybe he’s wrong,” Bellamy whispers as he raises from the chair slowly. Everything seems to happen slowly since he entered the shop, as if he stepped out of time. It’s only now that he hears the soft jazz music filling the room, heightening the feeling of melancholy.

“Maybe he should have never left,” Bellamy adds, almost wistful.

“Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have left,” Murphy confirms, chewing his lips before the words tumble out of his mouth. “But how do we know he’s not already back, just in disguise? Wasn’t there some sort of riddle?”

“Hm, there was, let me think about it…” Bellamy trails off, scratching his head pensively. “Howsoever, now that you’re already here, how about we move that shelf behind you? I needed to do this for a very long time, and I’m afraid I can’t do it all by myself.”

“That shelf?” Murphy creases his forehead. “I’m grieved to tell you, but I think it can’t be moved because it was once expertly fixed, and let me tell you, without any damages whatsoever, by an exceptionally gifted handyman.”

“Let me see.” Bellamy stands up to walk over to where he’s still leaning with his back against the bookshelf, to examine the visible splintered edge in the dark wood. He gives it a light shake, but nothing happens other than him sending specks of dust dancing into the air and Murphy having to cough terribly.

“Ah, sorry.”

“Nevermind,” Murphy coughs again, then shrugs apologetically at the shelf behind him. “I mean it’s not an olive tree as a bedpost, but you sure won’t move that.”

“You’ve still time to step up your game,” Bellamy says as he props his hand against the bookshelf right over Murphy’s head, eyes fixed on him like he’s reading another one of his old books. “Except you’d rather run again.”

Murphy hesitates for another moment before he plucks up the courage. It’s now or never. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, hm?” He breathes into the silence, his own heartbeat pounding in his head, fast and hard, and so loud it must be heard in the whole room.

Bellamy’s eyes widen at his words. “Really?” His voice is only trembling slightly, but he can tell by the way his fingers seem to clutch at the next best book tightly that he’s as tense as he is, strung to the breaking point.

He takes a long, deep breath, studying Bellamy as if he wants to draw a map of his face in case he ever gets lost again. In the warm light of the bookshop, he looks particularly golden. Golden and fair, and achingly hopeful.

“Really,” he says, and all of a sudden he knows what he has to do. “I won’t run away this time, promise. Have never been a fast runner anyway.”

A relieved laugh leaves Bellamy’s lips, and somewhere Raven and Octavia are cheering, and Mbege must be contorting his face awkwardly to stop himself from smiling.

And he’s there, still smelling like the same perfume, still warm and soft, and beautiful as ever. And then he kisses him. It’s familiar, the taste of peppermint in his mouth, the shape of his body pressing into his, the beating of his heart against his chest, and this time, it's nearly how it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for keeping up with this and for all your lovely comments! Tell me what you think, I really hope you liked the ending!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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